


Homecoming

by waywardelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom!Sam, First Time, M/M, Queer!Sam, Season/Series 10, mention of underage drug use, non graphic injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4728422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardelle/pseuds/waywardelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a solo hunt, Dean comes home to Sam. Post-Season 10, disregards Season 11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally at pathossam.tumblr.com  
> This started out as a drabble about Dean coming home after a solo hunt injured and Sam's reaction. It turned into something a lot bigger, but the premise is the same. This kind of disregards the Darkness, or at least doesn't mention it.

Dean gets in late. He’s been in southern Kansas for the past week, wrapping up what should have been an easy salt-and-burn, but turned into hell. Pretty literally, actually. Fuckin’ demons.

He presses on the clumsily-made bandage on his thigh, fresh blood making it to the surface. He stumbles, suddenly light-headed, knowing his decision to butterfly it closed and use a tourniquet was a stupid one. He needs stitches, bad–but his trusty sidekick had stayed behind, elbow deep in cataloging part of the bunker’s library. He’s always been shit at stitching himself (he would never tell anyone, but it makes him queasy). 

It’s like the demon sliced up his right side on purpose, knowing Dean would bleed out quicker that way, so he didn’t even bother. The hunt was finished, Dean was tired and ready to get home to his… uh, stuff. So he made a tourniquet with his ripped over shirt, and with a hope and a prayer, pointed baby towards Lebanon.

He shakes his head, trying to clear the blackness. He drops his duffle bag on the war room table and calls out for Sam. He takes a seat unsteadily, calling out again. He hopes his voice doesn’t shake. He’s–yeah. He’s gonna pass out.

He quickly returns to the land of the living, thanks to a big hand slapping his cheeks, the world’s most familiar voice calling his name. Dean thinks he’s wired to respond to that voice, that he would come back from the dead for that voice. He would do anything, go anywhere that voice told him to.

“Sammy,” he murmurs, his voice rumbling like thunder on the horizon. He cracks an eye open. “Your hair looks stupid.” His big little brother is kneeling in front of him, his wide shoulders bracketed by Dean’s spread thighs.

Sam scowls at him. His long hair is back in a high little bun, and Dean really likes it, but he can’t say that, now can he? He’s been putting it up more often lately, especially when he’s working.

“You’re the stupid one, Dean–jesus. How did you not bleed out on the drive home?”

“Tourniquet,” he grunts, then smiles. “Just had to keep it closed before I got home to my favorite nurse.” The blood loss is making him loopy, and he sees no issue in tracing a couple fingers up Sam’s throat and stubbled cheeks, fanning out his silky eyebrows.

Sam clears his throat. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Sam was leaning into his touch. “I’m gonna go get the first aid kit, okay? Don’t move.” He slaps Dean’s uninjured thigh as he rises. He looms over Dean, and Dean turns his face up to him.

He’s so goddamn huge. “When’d you get so big, huh Sammy?”

Sam rolls his eyes, patting his brother’s face. “About ten years ago, Dean. Pay attention.”

“Always payin’ attention to you, Sam.” He didn’t mean much by it, but his brother flushes before walking away.

Sam gets Dean put back together, and Sam insists Dean needs to sleep it off. But Dean doesn’t wanna sleep–the whiskey Sam had shoved in his hands before the stitches is worming its way through his veins, warming him from the inside out. He’s a little loopy from blood loss and says some pretty dumb shit, but Sam gets that fond, affectionate look on his face, and his smile is soft and private and just for Dean. Why would he want to go to bed? He can’t miss this, Sam humoring him instead of being annoyed.

After the Mark was removed, they decided to take a sabbatical. They didn’t go anywhere, really–just holed up in the bunker, Sam with his books, Dean with his vinyl, them with each other. In fact, this was the first hunt either of them had taken in a couple months, Dean wanting to spread his baby’s wings again, but Sam insisted he was in the middle of something and couldn’t just take off.

Against both of their better judgments, he went without Sam. It was (supposed to be) a milk run, and truthfully, he needed the space. Being in such close quarters with just his brother for the past few months–peaceful, happy months, cooking and laughing and telling stories they never had time to in the past 10 years–has been both a blessing and a curse.

They got to slow down and get to know who it was they kept sacrificing their lives for. Not that he didn’t know Sam–he knew him better than anyone, always would. But there were several details he had missed, and Dean was greedy for those little pieces of Sam. He needs them all, because he’s determined to put together the massive puzzle of Sam.

Like, okay, one night, Dean had come home with a smelly plastic bag full of green stuff. He shook the bag in Sam’s face, and Sam grinned, that mischievous teenager still living inside him shining through. They did this a lot when they were teenagers, living in shitty neighborhoods, cold and hungry and alone. Dean would change someone’s oil for a 20-sack, and they would lay in their bed and laugh and talk and curl around each other like cats.

They had gone into Dean’s room, Sam insisting they don’t smoke anywhere near the priceless books in the library. They’d lain shoulder-to-shoulder, Dean’s bed memorizing Sam. They talked for hours, about everything, and Sam had told him, shyly, haltingly, that he was into guys. That he was bi, had been his whole life.

“You know how you used to bitch about me not hooking up, pushing me towards girls? I guess it seemed like I was a monk, but. I was hooking up.” Sam had grinned at him across the bed, so close and warm and way too proud of himself. “I just didn’t flaunt it, you know? I was–I didn’t know how you’d react, finding out your little brother likes it up the ass.”

Dean had been shocked. “You… you just let some random stranger–”

Sam had cut him off. “If you say anything that is not total support–”

“No, Sammy, c’mon. I don’t care how you get your kicks.” And he doesn’t, it doesn’t change anything. But something is stirring in his gut, imagining Sam’s big, gorgeous body laid open or on all fours, ass canted, letting some random guy inside him, allowed to go somewhere Dean could never follow. “Does it… feel good?”

Sam had turned serious, his bloodshot eyes roaming over Dean’s face. “Yeah,” he breathed, running an errant hand down his stomach, letting it roam over his lap, adjusting himself. Dean watched the motion, and his lizard brain wanted him to follow Sam’s hand with his own. He’d had that urge a few times in his life, to feel that warm body, that proof of life, but never this strong. Never like this.

Sam was still talking, so Dean tried to tune back in. “…feels like nothing else, you know? It hurts at first, but if you know what you’re doing and just wait it out… yeah, it’s pretty amazing. You feel... _full_. Filled up. Someone just, ah,” Dean’s eyes go back to Sam’s hand, where it’s groping his balls, running a thumb up the long–fuck, really long–hard length of him, straining against his boxers. “Someone just laying you out, making you take it, oh–”

“You gonna touch yourself for me?” Dean had asked, and yeah. Sam had done just that, through his boxers, rubbing against the heel of his hand while his fingers pressed against his hole in sharp little circles. Like he was rubbing a clit, but different. That, uh. That part was new.

They had done this as teenagers, okay, another little something they knew about each other–weed made them both horny as fuck, and they had watched either touch themselves, talking filthy to wind the other up, panting in each other’s faces. They never touched, never kissed, so Dean had written it off as loneliness, of them being the other’s only constant source of affection. They had been horny, lonely kids, all wrapped up in each other, and that could be confusing for anyone.

But this, Dean reaching into his own shorts, bringing himself off while he watched Sam dig at his asshole through his briefs… this was different.

They had fallen asleep after that, side-by-side. Dean had woken up in the middle of the night with Sam draped over him, and when he woke up again the next morning, Sam wasn’t there, his spot cold.

They hadn’t discussed it, in true Winchester fashion. Dean had written it off as a fluke, two lonely men under the influence. It happens, right? Same reason as when they were kids, and that never amounted to anything, no matter how long Dean has been waiting for it. Never mind that it was the hottest thing Dean had ever seen, and… well. He had seen a lot.

“Compromise,” Sam says suddenly, drawing him out of his memories. Sam is peering at him closely, a pink blush staining his cheeks. Dean must have been staring at him–he releases his bottom lip, realizing he’s been chewing on it. Sam follows the motion with his eyes, licks his own lips. “Uh, let’s get you in bed, okay?”

“Sammy, don’t wanna–”

“And I’ll come to, okay? I’ll bring my work in there–”

Dean groans. “You are not bringing those dirty old books into my bed.”

Sam scoffs. “So, what? I’m just supposed to lay there?”

Dean grins, letting Sam help him to his feet. He’s still a little woozy, and Sam smells like a shower and the love of Dean’s life. “Oh, no, Sammy. I encourage participation.” He sends his brother a wolfish smile.

Sam scoffs, the blush deepening. “Let’s go, you idiot.”

When they get to Dean’s room, he strips off his bloody shirt, but can’t quite manage his pants over the rolls and rolls of medical tape wrapped around his bare thigh, underneath. “Little help, huh?”

Sam points to the bed, stripping out of his own shirt. Dean’s seen his brother shirtless probably a million times in his life, and it’s never made his breath catch like this. What the fuck is going on? He recognizes the masculine beauty in his brother, always has–even appreciates it, thinks he and Sam look good together, brothers or not. But something in him wants to reach out, put his hands all over that body. Make it his.

Dean sits and Sam kneels in front of him. Their eyes catch and hold as Sam’s warm fingers dip under his waistband to release the button on his jeans. Dean bites his lip, canting his hips forward so Sam can ease them down. He’s hard as a rock, and so is Sam–he can see it, pressing against his brother’s thigh underneath his yoga pants. Dean reaches out, traces the fresh ink on his brother’s chest, and he swears he can feel his own tattoo tingling, like they’re connected.

Sam tosses Dean’s jeans behind him, towards the basket. He wraps his long, elegant fingers around Dean’s ankle, and they duck their chins, foreheads together, to watch. Dean shivers, and his cock twitches in his briefs. He gets really wet at the tip, always has, and he can feel it pulsing sluggishly onto his skin.

“Is this for me?” Sam finally asks, trailing his fingers up Dean’s calf, his thigh, stopping before he reaches Dean’s dick.

“Sammy,” he breathes, suddenly nervous. He’s never been with a man, never wanted to. But he’s pretty confident about sex–fighting and fucking, the two things he always excels at–so it’s not that, not really. It’s the desire ripping through him, like a fog has been lifted, like the hazy definition of how he feels about his brother has suddenly become crystal clear.

All the times he couldn’t let Sam go, couldn’t stand the thought of Sam with a woman–or a man, now that he has that knowledge. How jealous it makes him, how afraid he always is that one day, he’ll be playing second fiddle to Sam’s wife, Sam’s children. It’s suddenly all making sense, way too much sense, why he’s never been able to tell Sam he loves him, even though that should be the easiest thing in the world to tell his brother. He can’t say it, because he means it; he means it so much, he’ll never be able to explain it properly.

“Are you hard for me?” Sam repeats, his hands suddenly gripping Dean’s hips.

“Yes,” Dean gasps, and Sam says, “Dean,” in a way he’s never said it before. Dean wonders for a moment how many other ways he can get Sam to say his name, then Sam’s hand is wrapping around his dick, through his shorts.

“God,” Sam whispers, ducking his head to frantically lay kisses along Dean’s waistband. Dean threads his fingers through the hairs that have escaped Sam’s bun, hips canting towards Sam’s mouth. “God. Do you even know? Fuck. _Fuck_ , Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, and then he hisses as Sam’s tongue finds his nipple. “God, Sam. What is going on–”

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch on for twenty fucking years,” Sam groans, burying his face in Dean’s neck. His breath is hot, coming in short little gasps. He tightens his hold on Sam’s hair, and Sam moans, setting his teeth to the skin there. “You think I’d just touch myself in front of anyone? Especially as a kid.” Sam tongues the skin under his teeth. “You know me better than that.”

“Oh, god,” Dean pants, watching his enormous brother straddle his hips. He keeps most of his weight off Dean’s lap, mindful–even now–of the stitches. Dean flexes his hands against Sam’s ass, gripping it through the warm fabric. “Why–didn’t you–”

“Had to come to it on your own,” Sam tells him, backing away. Their eyes meet again, and Dean is alarmed to find tears. He reaches up, touching his thumb to the corner of Sam’s eyelid. Sam’s eyes close, releasing the saline. He doesn’t know what comes over him, but suddenly his tongue is there, lightly, following the trail to where they end at the corner of Sam’s gasping mouth. Sam grips Dean’s hair, keeping him still. “I couldn’t tell you, Dean. I’d never know if you really felt that way, or if you were going along with it out of… duty, I guess. You, uh. You kind of made it your mission in life to give me everything I wanted, so.”

Dean gets it. But. “It’s not like that,” he insists, closing his eyes against the feeling of Sam squirming on his lap, putting pressure against his cock. He opens them again to watch Sam, his mouth open as Dean grinds their hard-ons together. “My whole life,” he pants, rolling his hips to keep that dazed look on Sam’s face, “has been, ah, an exercise in devotion t-to you. Everything I give you, I, fuck, want to give you. There’s nothing I have that isn’t yours, Sam.”

They share a look of a hundred different lifetimes, a hundred different words, all coming back to one: Sam. He’s enamored by this man, the strength both his body and heart possess, and the fact that it’s all for Dean. That it always has been, that someone like Sam has been waiting all his life for an idiot like Dean.

“Is this mine?” Sam wonders, trailing a finger over Dean’s lips. “Can this be mine, too?”

Dean maneuvers them onto his bed, laying Sam back against his mattress. He settles over him, elbows on either side of Sam’s head, knees dug into the memory foam. He doesn’t know how to answer Sam’s question, because yes–it can be his. Everything Dean has can be his. Everything Dean has has always been his. But how, exactly, do you say that?

“Can I kiss you?” Dean whispers, knowing the answer, but knowing Sam will appreciate him asking, just to check. “Please, Sammy.”

Sam smiles softly, reaching back to release his hair from the bun. It falls across the pillow, and Dean gathers it all in his hand and pulls, tipping Sam’s head back.

Sam groans, grinding his dick against Dean’s. When he’s distracted, Dean kisses him.

They both moan into it, their bodies relaxing, like they’ve been holding their breath all their lives and can finally release their lungs. Sam’s mouth is hot, perfect, his teeth sharp and tongue shy. Dean grips Sam’s hair again, and his mouth falls open against Dean’s. He sweeps his tongue in, tasting his brother, trying to commit it all to memory just in case Sam wakes up tomorrow and decides Dean is a bad, bad man for touching his little brother like this.

Sam arms come around him, pressing their bodies together from head to groin. Dean can hardly breathe, panting against Sam’s mouth between deep, life-affirming kisses, like he’s hyperventilating. He’s never kissed like this, never felt this ache, never felt like oxygen comes second place to keeping his mouth right here, against Sam’s swollen, bitten-red lips.

Sam pulls back, tipping his head against the pillow. He's gasping for air, his body arching and writhing, begging to be touched. God, his little brother is so fucking hot, so beautiful, so goddamn responsive–

“You told me you encouraged participation,” Sam groans around a smile, smoothing his hands through Dean’s hair as Dean marks up that long, gorgeous neck. Dean realizes he must have said that last part out loud, and he tugs on Sam’s hair again for the impudence.

Dean finally notices the rocking motion to their hips, and he realizes he’s about thirty seconds away from blowing his load. The whiskey, the blood-loss, the long drive, and the fact that he’s almost 40 years old means his stamina is not what it used to be. And his stamina’s never had to go up against someone like Sam, who can strip him of every defense with a look.

“Gonna come, Sammy,” he bites against Sam’s neck. Sam ducks his head down, searching for Dean’s puffy mouth. They find the kiss again, hungrily, as Dean wrestles his and Sam’s briefs down far enough to grasp their cocks together.

He’s shaking apart after one smooth stroke, the feel of his brother’s blood-hot dick pulsing against his own making him lose his mind. Dean’s had a lot of sex, okay? But this is–this is new to him. And not just because Sam is a man.

“I can’t,” Sam pants, screwing his eyebrows together, hiking his hips up. “Get me there, Dean, c’mon, I want–” Sam moves his hand down his body, two fingers trailing past his dick and swollen, full balls. Dean can’t see where they go, but he has a pretty good idea, with the way Sam’s hips undulate and his mouth falls open.

Dean can’t wrap his mind around how hot that is. “You need something in that little hole to take the edge off, Sammy?” His voice is low, dirty. “You fucking yourself with those fingers?” He sticks two fingers in his mouth, laving them with spit.

“Yes,” Sam moans, shifting his hips. “Oh, oh–”

Dean grabs for Sam’s wrist, pulling it away. Sam groans his displeasure, then almost rockets off the bed when Dean sinks two spit-soaked fingers right up inside him.

“C’mon,” Dean pants, pressing his fingers against something he can feel inside Sam, wondering if it’s–yeah, it is. Sam’s hips come off the bed and he throws his head back, that sweaty, gorgeous neck bared for him. He lunges for it, sucking a kiss between his teeth. “C’mon, jerk these big dicks so I can make sure you’re gettin’ fucked like you need.”

“Dean, Jesus,” Sam gasps, taking both of their cocks in his long fingers. Sam likes it a little rougher than Dean, but that’s okay–Dean’s so fucking close to blowing his load, and the little twist of Sam’s wrist does it.

He comes hard, pushing his fingers deep into the hot, tight place inside Sam as he unloads all over their bellies. Sam’s hips are up off the bed, fucking himself back down on Dean’s fingers, and Dean watches, gasping, knees shaking.

“That’s it,” Dean whispers against that swollen mouth, still trembling. His lizard brain is speaking for him, and it’s making Sam crazy. “Such a good boy, takin’ it so sweet for me–”

Sam cries out, and his muscles clamp down so tightly around Dean’s fingers, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to pull them out until Sam relaxes. It makes him moan, feeling the splashes of his brother’s release, Sam grinding his ass against Dean’s hand, using him until he’s satisfied.

Sam winces as Dean slowly removes his fingers, smoothing that hand up Sam’s flank. They’re both panting, staring at each like they’ve never quite seen the other before. Dean ducks his forehead against Sam’s, clasping Sam’s chin in his (clean) fingers.

“Never felt like this before,” Dean murmurs, not sure what he's trying to say exactly, but it feels important to say it. He presses light kisses against Sam’s puffy, sore lips. “Never. Just you.”

Sam smiles, running his hands along Dean's back. They curl together, Dean's face buried in Sam's neck, lips trailing errant kisses there. Sam whispers his name, and it’s the last thing Dean remembers before falling asleep.

Sam is gone again the next morning when Dean wakes up, but Sam’s spot is still warm. Dean smiles into his pillow, way too happy to give a shit about the dry, flaky come all over him. His thigh is pulsing; he hopes they didn’t rip any of his stitches.

Dean smells coffee, and he groans as he rolls out of bed. He prays to anyone who will listen–except Castiel, oh god, he hopes Cas doesn’t hear this–that this will be easy. That Sam won’t freak out, won’t think what they did last night was wrong. Or that Dean didn’t mean it, because he did. He really, really did. He’s not too worried, though–he knows Sam, and he knows that his brother wouldn’t have done anything if he wasn’t sure.

Still, when he gets to the kitchen, he leans against the door frame, a little trepidation in his bones. He stares at his brother’s long body, the pillow creases in his cheeks, the dried come he’s absently scratching off his stomach as he flips a piece of bacon at the stove. He swallows thickly, kind of overcome with the beauty of his brother, the newness of this, the potential of where this could go… he didn’t think much on it last night, more worried about getting off, but.

Dean’s always feared being alone, and he doesn’t think that’s a huge secret. It’s why Sam insisted he go to Lisa, and why Sam had wondered aloud several times about Dean being happier settling down into an “apple pie life.” It's what Sam had thrown in his face during that fight about Gadreel--he had deserved it, but. It stung. Sam had brought it up again recently, and the anxiety it brought Dean was overwhelming. He knew Sam was giving him an out–he didn’t want Dean to leave–but the fact Sam brought it up again means he’s been thinking about it. He couldn’t–if Sam leaves him, he knows what will happen to him. He will die alone in this place, probably drunk, his last thought about wishing his brother was here.

It’s true that he wouldn’t mind things being more peaceful, but leaving Sam was out of the question. But. But–now, it looks like he gets to have both. He can’t wrap his mind around that, around the fact that he’s finally gotten what he wants. Something he wanted so badly, he couldn’t let the thought form completely in his mind for fear of never getting it, and it killing him.

“You just gonna stare at my ass all day or what?”

Sam hasn’t turned around from where he’s frying bacon at the stove. He just knows Dean is standing there, and that, more than anything, gets Dean’s feet moving.

“Good mornin’,” he says, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Sam finally turns to look at him, taking in his bare chest all marked up with Sam’s teeth and his wrinkled, come-crusted boxer briefs. He smiles like the sun rising. He moves over to Dean, who’s kind of standing stupidly in the middle of the kitchen, completely and totally smitten with the look in Sam’s eyes, the smile that’s just for him.

Sam kisses him, right there in their kitchen for god and the world to see. It's a hell of a kiss, too, deep and slow, with dragging teeth and a soft tongue. Sam moans when their tongues brush each other, and Dean's morning wood is suddenly throbbing. When Sam backs away, Dean knows he looks like a love-dumb idiot, but. Well, he is.

“Yeah,” Sam says finally, dropping one more kiss to Dean’s lips. “It is a good morning.”


End file.
